


Winter's Child

by Honorificabilitudinitatibus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catelyn Stark Doesn't Hate Jon Snow, F/F, F/M, He was also the last Stark cryomage, House Snark of Winterfell, Magic, R Plus L Equals J, Sansa is the Queen of Winter, Slow Burn, The Army of the Dead, The Houses have their own magic, Torrhen Stark wasn't just the last King of Winter, Wargs, hopefully, it gets wild, someone please give sansa a hug, the Targaryens are pyromancers, until sansa stark was born
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honorificabilitudinitatibus/pseuds/Honorificabilitudinitatibus
Summary: In Westeros, each noble house is known to have an affinity for a particular type of magic. For thousands of years, House Stark was stronger than all of them- holding the north with mages who could command winter herself. When Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon Targaryen to protect The North from the wrath of dragon flame, however, the Starks forgot the language of winter- their gifts faded into legend. Since then, the children of House Stark have traditionally been born as wargs, or skinchangers.Sansa Stark is neither- an outcast in her own family, no matter how hard she prays. Years pass, and Sansa’s dreams remain silent, devoid of wolves, while water refuses to rise at her fingertips as it does for Robb. Only Jon, who keeps the secret of his own magic, comes close to understanding. No matter how Sansa wishes she could stay with him, they walk different paths, and she has to travel south- reconciling herself to a life away from Winterfell.Until they cut off her father's head, and Sansa Stark freezes over all of Blackwater Bay in her grief.-Sansa’s fury awakens in her a power that hasn’t been seen in Westeros since the arrival of Aegon the Conqueror. As a result, the very fate of Westeros is altered.





	1. Silent Dreams and Cold Flames

Sansa walked the halls of Winterfell with all the grace and poise of a true lady, smiling at those she passed, and afforded every convenience due to a daughter of House Stark.  
That didn’t mean, however, that she was ignorant to the whispers that followed her. 

_Failure. Fraud. Far too Southron for a daughter of winter._

_-Not even the magic of Lady Catelyn-_

_A shame- such an embarrassment for Lord Stark- not a trace of magic in that one._

**_Cursed by the old gods._ **

Sansa wondered if they thought her deaf, the way the people of Winterfell spoke of her sometimes. She tried to think the best of them- that they merely worried for the future of House Stark, and pitied its liege lord for being handed a daughter who had been forgotten by the old gods. 

It didn’t seem to matter how much time she spent in the Godswood, praying desperately for the old gods to forgive her whatever transgression she may have committed in their eyes. It didn’t seem to make a difference when she spent hours on her knees in the sept that her father had built for her lady mother, praying to the seven for a single spark of her mother’s gift.  
Her dreams remained abstract, silly things- nothing like what the dreams of a warg would be- and when she trailed her fingers through the pool in the Godswood, the water did not answer her call the way it did for her mother or Robb. 

The smallfolk called her cursed, she knew, but Sansa rather would have been cursed than forgotten by the gods. She had bargained, begged, _pleaded_ even, with the old gods, but they had remained silent, and while her siblings learned their own gifts, Sansa was forced to watch from the sidelines. 

So while Arya ran wild as a wolf, Sansa practiced her courtesies with Septa Mordane. While Robb prepared to be Lord of Winterfell, and their mother taught him how to move water with his will, Sansa picked her fingers nearly dry of blood perfecting her embroidery. When Bran climbed so high and for so long that their mother actually shouted at him, Sansa taught herself the history of Westeros, and the songs and dances of the different realms. 

If she could not be a gifted daughter of House Stark, she could at least be dutiful, and make a good marriage in the South. They used to hunt skinchangers there, Sansa knew, but perhaps she could make an alliance for her family in the South, if not the north. Without the magic of the Starks, no Northron house would want her. 

Arya had attacked Cley Cerwyn, punching him with tiny fists, when he called Sansa a freak. Jon had nearly taken off Harrion Karstark’s arm in the training yard after he had scoffed at Sansa in front of her brothers, and named her cursed to her face. Even Rickon had actually _snarled_ at Lady Barbrey Dustin for insinuating that Sansa wasn’t Eddard Stark’s daughter, even if he had only been reacting to Robb’s own barely-concealed outrage.

Eddard Stark had been lenient to the point of absurdity when punishing his children for these incidents, and Sansa knew that her father loved her, even as he didn’t know what to do with her. Catelyn Stark taught her daughter everything she needed to know to make a match in the south, but Sansa could feel the disappointment in her mother that the child who looked the most like her had not inherited any of the Tully gift. So she practiced her courtesies, and dressed the part of a Southron lady, and prayed every day that the gods would remember her, even as the heart tree remained silent, and the statues in the sept merely stared with unseeing eyes. 

The day that Bran began having wolf-dreams- the last of them, for Rickon already promised to be a powerful skinchanger, and Arya had a control over her gift that the lords and smallfolk alike admired- Sansa had straightened her spine, and gone to the celebratory feast every inch the proud older sister. 

She had congratulated Bran, kissing him on the cheek and smiling at his thrilled grin as she presented the gift that she had been working on for him- a tunic emblazoned with a white weirwood, red leaves trailing up and down the sides. The painstaking needlework had been a labor of love, and knowing that she would give it to him when his gift manifested was a pain in her heart, even as she had continued to stitch. Bran blushed when she praised him, and had beamed, the sounds of all of Winterfell's celebration ringing in the background. 

Sansa had stayed as long as she needed to, greeting guests and making polite small talk even as the Northern Lords and Ladies looked on her with pity, when kind. When all attention was on Bran, once more, Sansa slipped out, lady at her heels as she always was, making her way to the Godswood. She tucked herself under the heart tree and wept until her entire body was shaking with the force of her sobs. Lady curled into her side, and Sansa could feel the heat that her direwolf was radiating as she curled into her. 

Eventually, a figure came and sat down next to her, gently rubbing her back while she cried. His hands were warm, like he had held them to a fire, and Sansa leaned into her brother-cousin’s side as she cried, her other hand still buried in Lady’s soft fur. 

Jon, after all, understood her better than the others. Robb was already so powerful with their mother’s gift, and while Bran was just coming into his own gift, Rickon and Arya promised to uphold the traditions of House Stark on their own well enough. Of them all, Sansa was the only one who had never displayed a single gift from the old gods. Her mother doted on Robb and indulged Rickon, and their father praised Bran’s quick wit and bravery. Theon was brash and ill-behaved at times, but no one had ever expected him to have the Stark gifts, and absolutely _everyone_ , from their father all the way to the scullery-maids in Winterfell's kitchens, seemed to love and adore Arya. 

Only bastard born Jon, with his secret gift, and powerless Sansa stood out.

“I’m- I’m happy for Bran.” She sniffed, trying to remember not to use her sleeve to wipe her face. Even exhausted, decorum was all she had to offer. “Truly, I am. He’ll be a great knight, now- even more so for his gift.”

“I’m sorry, sweet girl.” Jon murmured, putting an arm around her. “I wish I could give you my gifts.”

“At least you can skinchange, though.” Sansa told him, her voice thick. “Like a proper Stark. At least you can run with Ghost in your dreams, even if you can’t use the other gifts.”  
Jon sighed.

“It builds up, under my skin.” He admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “It feels like an itch for a while, but it gets painful if I don’t use it after a time. It feels like having another heartbeat, the way the flames lick under my skin. Even if the rest of Winterfell would think me powerless, though, I would give you my Stark gifts without second thought.”

Sansa sniffled, but gave him a weak smile, tucking her head into the side of his shoulder. It had always been the two of them- the outcasts of Winterfell.

He lifted his hands, looking around to check that they were completely alone in the Godswood before he breathed into them, expelling a bright, dancing stream of flame. Sansa loved watching Jon summon his fire- it was like watching the dragons come to life again- seeing Balerion made flesh once more. 

Jon’s breath, though, never destroyed. Watching his flames, Sansa could understand why the red priestesses of Essos told the world that fire was cleansing- that it renewed life and could even create it anew. 

Jon shaped the flames in his hand into a quickly galloping horse, and then a roaring direwolf, and finally, the flames changing color to the deepest blue as he twisted them into the shape of a winter rose, handing it to Sansa. 

She loved watching Jon create living sculptures from his fingertips- he had promised her years before that he would only ever create them for her. When Sansa held them in her hands, his flames held no heat, and she felt none of the pain that she had feared the first time he had crafted a miniature Lady for her, the wolf’s eyes as gentle as the real direwolf’s gaze. Anytime Robb or Arya got too close to Jon’s flames, they would recoil from the heat, but as Sansa plucked the flickering rose from his hands, she felt nothing more than a slight warmth. There was only the hint of a pulse under the flower’s surface. Her fingers did not burn or blister- they never did when she held Jon’s creations. 

“Thank you.” Sansa breathed, giving a sad smile as she beheld the beautiful rose. “At least if the old gods have cursed me, I can still be happy for Bran. I know that I can.”

“I don’t think anyone ever doubted you, Sansa.” Jon told her, his eyes still serious- always so serious. Sansa sometimes would look into them and wonder if Rhaegar Targaryen had ever been that serious. Wondered if he had looked at her Aunt Lyanna with that same quiet intensity. 

She banished those thoughts, quickly, but smiled at him nonetheless. A real smile, not the polite upturn of her lips in the hall, or the affectionate, bitter smile she had given Bran.

“Maybe you didn’t doubt me. I certainly doubted myself.” She murmured. 

“You’ve always been the best of all of us, Sansi.” Jon told her, rubbing her shoulders to keep her warm. In truth, Sansa barely felt the night’s chill. “Always far kinder than we deserved. I can’t imagine the gods ever cursing you.”

“Perhaps they’ve simply forgotten me.” Sansa told him, turning the flickering rose over in her hands. “Perhaps that’s a worse fate than any curse.”

Jon didn’t respond to that, merely pressed a kiss to her forehead. Sansa appreciated it more than she could say. she wasn’t really sure there was anything that could be said, at that point.


	2. Outcasts and Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn and Jon reflect upon Jon's childhood at Winterfell, and King Robert and retinue visit Winterfell. The Queen turns her nose up at Winterfell, while Jon manages to be jealous of the crown prince without entirely realizing it.

Jon remembered a time, when they were all still children, when life had been simpler. A time when he and Robb could have stood on each other’s shoulders, and the two of them together still wouldn’t have been taller than their father’s greatsword. 

Back then, they had all been too young to have been expected to display signs of any sort of magical gift. Lady Catelyn had been cold to him, then, and had never touched him- barely spoke to him- save one harsh winter when even Jon had been included in her worry that the children would freeze to death in the night. Theon had not yet arrived, and Sansa had been very small, clutching her mother’s skirts as she followed Lady Catelyn around the castle. 

Back then, Ned Stark had told Jon that he was his son, treating him as alike to Robb as Lady Catelyn would tolerate. 

But one especially cold winter morning, Jon and Robb, having grown bored with Maester Luwin’s lessons, had retreated to the warmth of the kitchens, and the huge braziers that warmed the chamber. Both Lord and Lady Stark had forbidden them going outside, and the sharp chill in the air had subdued the entire household. Only Sansa had remained cheerful, her round toddler’s cheeks red and bright with joy at the sight of all the snow. 

They were supposed to be listening to Old Nan’s stories- the rest of the kitchen staff off eating their own noon meal- and while Sansa had been entranced, her eyes wide at the tales of creatures from the farthest corners of the true North, Jon and Robb had grown restless and fidgety from being cooped up indoors. 

When Old Nan’s eyes had slid shut, and her breathing evened out, Robb had sprung up, seemingly invigorated by the warmth that the hearth exuded, and challenged Jon to a game of knights and maidens. Sansa had immediately agreed to be the maiden in their game, and for several minutes, they had simply swung at each other, gracelessly, with wooden swords while Sansa cheered for them, clapping gleefully as they pretended to fight for her honor. 

Robb and Jon had gotten rougher, though, and ultimately, wooden swords were replaced with fists, and they were rolling around on the floor like kitchen boys. All traces of propriety were stripped away as the boys wrestled, Sansa giggling at their antics as Robb pushed Jon. 

Catelyn Stark had walked into the chamber just in time to see Jon trip, unsteady from Robb’s shove, and stumble backwards into the hearth. 

Jon didn’t remember much about that day, but he would never have forgotten the anguish in Lady Catelyn’s scream- the sheer terror for a child that she had never so much as had a kind word for before. Her face had been contorted with dread, and she had reached into the flames, her own water-covered hands burning and blistering as she tried to pull Jon out. 

When Jon had walked out of the flames, clothing slightly singed, but his skin unblemished- if warm to the touch- she had been pulling water from a nearby basin, directing it with blistered hands towards the fireplace. Jon had shuddered at the sudden chill as it crashed over him, and saw that Lady Stark’s eyes were wide, her mouth open in horror. 

Jon had stammered his apologies, dropping to his knees in hope that she wouldn’t send him away for his misbehavior, but when he looked closer, her expression hadn’t been one of disgust, but of disbelief. Robb looked more horrified than any of them, and Sansa was weeping, clearly frightened. After a moment of shock, though, Lady Catelyn had gathered him close, the way he had always wished she would, whispering soft, unintelligible reassurances to the shaking boy. 

She had gently reprimanded Robb, wiped the tears from Sansa’s face, and sent Jon off for a warm bath and a change of dry clothes- taking care of all of them before sending for the maester to bandage her burnt hands, even though Jon was sure they pained her. She winced whenever she moved them, and Jon had seen a blacksmith’s apprentice roar in pain from a burn far smaller than that which covered Lady Stark’s hands. 

Later that evening, they had all been summoned to Lord Stark’s chambers, Robb squirming, as though he expected to be reprimanded by their father. Lady Stark had smiled tiredly at them, her hands covered in thick bandages, and Jon had never felt quite as guilty in his entire life. Lord Stark had bid them to sit, and Sansa had gracefully perched herself on the rug in front of the hearth, firmly holding a squirming Arya in her lap and cooing at the wild girl while Jon and Robb lowered themselves to sit at her side. 

Jon supposed that Lady Catelyn had insisted- Lord Eddard had looked reluctant to tell him of his true parentage, but Jon knew as well as any of them that there was only one house in Westeros that was known for being able to withstand the heat of a roaring flame. He and Robb would have discovered the truth themselves soon enough after all, had they been left to their own devices to discover why Jon had survived an event that would have killed a normal boy. 

From then on, Robb and Sansa had known the truth of Jon’s birth- kept silent on the matter by the uncharacteristic demand in Ned Stark’s voice when he had told them that they could never mention this to another living soul. They had even been barred from speaking to Arya about it, though- tenacious as she was- the girl had found out on her own, several years later. 

He remembered hearing an awful lot of Lady Stark’s shouting from inside Lord Stark’s chambers in the weeks after that, though never at him, and never when there was a chance anyone else was around. She was decidedly cold to Lord Stark for a while, but for the first time, none of her cold silences were directed at Jon. 

Ever since then, Catelyn Stark had been as much a mother to Jon as she was to the rest of the Stark children, even as it drew odd stares and unkind comments from certain unruly bannermen. Jon was certainly grateful for it, even if he had nearly let Robb knock him off his feet in shock the first time she had smiled at him alongside her other children in the trailing yard.

_____________________

There were times when Catelyn Stark thought back to Jon Snow’s childhood, and felt a deep sense of shame, even as she reminded herself that she had believed that Ned- dearest Ned- had dishonored her. 

She had barely been able to look upon the boy’s face for fear that her anger would overtake her- perhaps if she had, she would have noticed that something rang false about Jon Snow. He was quieter than Robb, more thoughtful, and despite his oh-so Stark features, there was an aristocratic slope to his nose and an elegance to his face that should have clued her in to his heritage.

His _Targaryen_ heritage. 

It was more and more evident as he got older, though Catelyn suspected that was only because she knew what to look for. Otherwise, Jon Snow looked as much a son to Ned Stark as any of his children. More so, sometimes, if not for the way that his gray eyes would flash an eerie violet in the sunlight. It was a terrifying thought, harboring a boy that Robert Baratheon would see dead in a heartbeat, should he learn of Jon’s existence. 

Catelyn would never have done anything to attract Baratheon’s attention to the boy- no matter Ned’s friendship with the king, there was no power in the world that would be enough to save them from the wrath of Robert Baratheon’s lightning if he learned that Ned had betrayed him. 

When a letter arrived at Winterfell, bearing the royal seal and news of Jon Arryn’s death, Catelyn’s heart had nearly stopped. 

Robert wanted Ned to be his hand, and they could not afford to have the king angry with them- not when the Starks harbored the Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne. If they wanted to keep Robert from looking too closely, Ned _had_ to go to Kings Landing. They didn’t have a choice. 

Catelyn had grown to care for Jon Snow, and even if she had been hesitant to embrace the boy at first, he so clearly loved her husband and children that she could not have held onto her dislike if she had tried. 

He and Robb had practically been attached at the hip since birth. Theon had been folded into the group upon arrival, but while he was their friend, Robb and Jon were brothers in all but blood. He was the favorite brother to Arya, tempering some of her wilder urges, while encouraging her interests, and would gladly work on archery with Bran for hours in the courtyard, Rickon perched on his shoulders as soon as Jon had grown strong enough to lift him. 

But it was his relationship with Sansa that had truly endeared him to Catelyn. Sansa was a dear girl- smart, if a bit dreamy, and Catelyn could not have asked for a more perfect lady. But as her siblings had grown, each of them had grown into their own gifts- Robb hearing the call of water as the Tully’s had for hundreds of years, the rest of her brood waking from wolf dreams with excitement on their faces. Only Sansa had never displayed even the slightest signs of magic. 

She and Ned had nearly worried themselves sick over their eldest daughter, but Sansa seemed determined to make something of herself, gift or no gift. She had thrown herself into her studies, practically perfected her manners and courtesies, and practiced her embroidery until her skill was unparalleled in Winterfell. 

Catelyn had worried that Sansa would become too serious, as it seemed that every time one of her siblings would awaken their own gifts, Sansa would retreat into herself a bit more. Never to the point of standoffishness- she had been nothing but kind and encouraging when Bran had begun to dream of running with wolves, or Arya had begun to warg into Nymeria’s body (a gift that still unnerved Catelyn a bit, even after all her time in the North and all of the times she had watched Ned slip into Bael- his own direwolf). Even despite Sansa’s cheerful facade, Catelyn could read the quiet despair that befell her daughter when she, alone, remained devoid of the gods’ blessings. 

Jon Snow had always been there, though, and his presence seemed to lift Sansa’s spirits like no other. The boy had wolf-dreams, Catelyn knew, but he had been sworn to secrecy about his other abilities. It would have been a dead giveaway, for only Targaryens had ever been able to control flames. Others could summon them, yes, but fire didn’t typically answer to mortal men, and those who had summoned flames with no means to control them often found themselves being consumed by the same fire they had set. 

The bastard boy with his secrets, and her gods-forgotten daughter. What a pair they made. 

In a kinder world, Catelyn may have suggested they wed. They obviously cared for each other, and there was precious little happiness in this world as it was. In another life, Jon Snow might have been able to offer Sansa the sizable lands of a prince, and a life of security, but as a bastard, he had next to nothing, and those ideas could never come to fruition. 

So Catelyn watched the two of them sit in the Godswood, Ghost and Lady close behind, and watched the grins they exchanged when Jon helped Arya in the training yard (when they thought she wasn’t aware, Catelyn mused, wryly), or when Jon defeated Robb again in combat. She watched them sit in the glass gardens as Sansa sewed, and it softened a small place in her heart to see the boy’s smile- Rhaegar Targaryen’s smile- brought out for a particularly intricate piece of Sansa’s work. 

Catelyn watched them together, and tried to quiet the little voice in the back of her head that suggested to her just how easy it might be to restore a Targaryen to the throne. How the pieces would fall into place if she only were to topple the first domino. Her daughter could be a queen, and none could ever disdain her lack of gifts again. 

But there was a shame that came with those thoughts too- Jon did not want to be king, and Robert Baratheon was Ned Stark’s greatest friend. Her husband would never agree to a betrayal like that- he was an honorable man.

With Robert’s arrival, Catelyn began to worry that that honor might one day prove the death of him. 

____________________

Like most children in Westeros, Jon had grown up hearing tales of the mighty battle between Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon on the Trident. Of Rhaegar’s sword, and the flames that he commanded as Robert Baratheon had barreled down on him with a cry deep as thunder. After Jon had learned the truth, his feelings had become more complicated, but it had always sent a shiver down his spine to hear about the moment that Rhaegar’s white flames met the scream of Robert’s lightning on the battlefield. 

Maester Luwin had always told him and Robb that, while fire could easily be extinguished by water, lightning could travel through it, causing horrific damage to anyone even touching the water. Ultimately, this had been Rhaegar’s demise- shot through with lightning by Robert Baratheon at the fork of the river when he had made the mistake of letting himself fall into the murky waters. 

It was no small feat, to have defeated Rhaegar in combat, and for all his mixed feelings and misplaced guilt on the subject, Jon had at least been looking forward to seeing the living legend that was Robert Baratheon. 

He’d had to quickly school his features in the courtyard when the royal family arrived. This king was a huge man- nearly as wide in girth as he was in height- and his hair and beard were peppered with gray. It was only when he opened his mouth, and his booming voice emerged, that Jon was able to see him as the Baratheon warrior that had struck down one of the strongest men that House Targaryen had ever sired. 

His voice really was like thunder as he greeted Lord Stark, and as he clapped him on the back, Jon could see tiny bolts of lightning shoot through his brown beard- as though all the power he held couldn’t be contained even in his massive body. His blue eyes were intense like a summer storm, even from where Jon stood. 

The Queen emerged from her carriage, and Jon was immediately struck by the oddity of it all. That this unkempt storm king should have a wife so dangerously beautiful was almost laughable. Cersei Lannister had a haughty look upon her golden features, though, and each of her three children seemed to share her face, with varying degrees of her expression. 

Jon wondered how much of her beauty was illusion, and how much was real. Since Lann the Clever had tricked Casterly Rock out of the hands of House Casterly, the Lannisters had always been known for their ability to change the way the people around them perceived the world. Some who had written of the Lannister gift described it as a shimmer around the glamoured object or being, perceptible only if one was aware of it, or had certain types of magic. Jon had come across more than one account warning of Lannister magic in the Stark library.

His gift of fire was little protection against Lannister illusions, he knew. Targaryen gifts- the magic of old Valyria- seemed to amplify the magic of others, rather than dampen it, and he was always very careful around Bran and Rickon when they wanted to use their gifts with him nearby. It was a baseless fear, Lord Stark had reassured him, but Jon often worried that his own magic would amplify theirs to the point where one might become permanently stuck in the body of another creature. 

He could almost feel the Lannister Queen’s magic when she stalked by him- it felt like something slippery, something oily and warm, and Jon almost shuddered at the sensation. Interestingly, Cersei Lannister’s gift felt far stronger than her brother’s- the Kingslayer’s. 

Jon had somehow expected Jaime Lannister to be taller. Where he had pictured Robert Baratheon as a muscular warrior, he had expected the Kingslayer to tower over those around him. His actions were legendary, if dishonorable, and to feel his magic be so much smaller than that of his sister’s was strangely anti-climactic. 

It was Tyrion Lannister- the Imp- however, that surprised Jon the most. He didn’t greet the Starks formally, like the King had done, but followed his siblings into the castle, whistling an odd little tune. He could hear Bran and Arya whispering about his odd looks, but Jon was more surprised to feel the magic he held. The little man was practically oozing with that oily, Lannister magic, and Jon’s eyes couldn’t help but follow him as he passed, wondering what the half-man was really capable of. 

____________________

The feast held in the King’s honor was a raucous affair. King Robert was enthusiastically greeting some of the serving girls, with one seated on his lap, and another on his arm. He was very enthusiastically drunk, and Jon hoped he could control his own gift- there was little anyone could do if the king decided to throw lightning bolts to impress the girls, save to duck and hope for the best. 

The Queen’s lip curled at her husband’s behavior, and she seemed to ignore any attempt Lady Catelyn made to engage her in conversation. He caught the brief look of exasperation on Lord Stark’s face, as King Robert kissed another serving girl, and he decided to look away from the scene, directing his attention back towards his siblings.

As the eldest daughter, Sansa had been given the dubious honor (in Jon’s opinion) of escorting the crown prince in to the feast. Jon had watched Robb escort Princess Myrcella, amused at Robb’s attempt at chivalry, but his eyes had lingered on Sansa and the prince- a blonde boy who looked every inch a copy of the Kingslayer.

Sansa was radiant, her gown an icy gray, embroidered with blue roses trailing up and down the bodice and skirt, and vines lining her collar. It was her own work, Jon knew. Sansa had taken part of it out to work on in the glass gardens, where Jon often liked to sit, when he wasn’t at lessons or training with Robb and Theon, and feel the warmth of the sun shining through the translucent walls. Sansa had insisted that she needed to see the way that the shadows fell on the winter roses they grew, and Jon enjoyed watching her work- her face fully focused and brows furrowed as she delicately painted with her own needle. Her work was wasted on the prince, Jon thought, who had lips like worms, and a general expression of disdain for everything at Winterfell. 

He desperately wished that he could be up there with his cousins- that he could keep the fat king from leering at Lady Catelyn and Sansa when he wasn’t busy with the servant girls. He didn’t like the way that Cersei Lannister sneered at the food offered her, and he didn’t like the way Sansa eagerly chatted with the prince, and he really didn’t like being stuck below the high table, with only a drunken Theon for company. 

The only thing that he enjoyed about this feast was watching Arya’s disgruntled face as the youngest prince- a much more pleasant looking boy than his brother- escorted her in. She had been forced into a dress by Lady Catelyn, and looked every inch the way a cat might when you forced it into water. It was all he could do to smother his snickering at her face when Prince Tommen kissed her hand, and Jon thought that if Lady Catelyn had not threatened to take away her bow, Arya might have smacked the boy. 

When he looked back to Sansa, however, her face was entranced, and she was looking at the prince adoringly. Any of Jon’s amusement in that moment faded, and he returned to his meal, stabbing his meat with his fork, and wishing it was the prince’s hand he were stabbing instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand chapter 2! Thank you all so much for your lovely and kind comments- it's been a rough week for me, and they really brightened my day. I loved hearing everyone's take on the concept, and we'll likely see more magic as we go on- the first two chapters are really kind of establishing the relationships between the characters more than anything else. 
> 
> I thought that, since Orys Baratheon was rumoredly a Targaryen bastard, and lightning is sometimes called 'cold fire', lightning was a fitting legacy for House Baratheon, especially considering that more than few Targs have married into House Baratheon over the years. House Lannister being full of illusionists just seemed to fit, all things considered, and of course Jaime would have the weakest magic there- he's the least tricky of all of them, and probably the most weirdly honorable, even if he hasn't met Brienne yet. 
> 
> I liked the idea that Jon's Targaryen magic would give him the ability to kind of 'feel' people's gifts in some ways- although it's definitely more apparent with the Lannisters than with most people. Also, the idea of Jon being the magical human equivalent of a wifi amplifier was both hilarious, and oddly fitting to me. 
> 
> Cat has ambitions! I've always thought her a complicated character, and I think that she's probably better suited to be a lord than most of the lords in Westeros- she's smart, capable, and clearly a good leader. Here, we see her trying to tamp down her own ambition a little for the sake of her husband and his honor. it's so pesky when honor gets in the way, isn't it? I've always thought her relationship with Jon was interesting, and I think that for all Cat genuinely cares for him, he's a trump card in her back pocket in a lot of ways. Also, House Tully is full of waterbenders! 
> 
> Next time, we'll get back to Sansa's perspective a bit- and see how she feels about the royal visit and the Lannister Queen. Thanks so much for reading!!


	3. The Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell adjusts to the rhythm of a royal visit, Sansa receives a surprising proposal, and tragedy strikes House Stark.

Sansa watched her father smile at the royal children and her mother speak with the queen, and studied the scene around her, wondering if this kind of opulence was what every day was like in the capital. She smiled at Joffrey as he escorted her in, his golden hair shining in the firelight.

Though Jeyne had told her a number of times how handsome and strong Joffrey looked, Sansa wasn’t entirely convinced. He seemed valiant, yes, and was every inch the golden prince Sansa had always pictured from her stories- although there was something that felt almost _oily_ on him, although no one else seemed to notice. Ever since the royal party had arrived, Jeyne spoke of him like he was a god made flesh- which was odd, given how level-headed she usually was. Arya scowled at Prince Tommen as she usually did, though, and it made Sansa smile to see some normalcy.

Sansa didn’t entirely understand why, but looking at Tommen and Myrcella was giving her a headache. She had to blink, tearing her eyes away as their very heads seemed to flicker, the effect on their glossy black hair making her dizzy. It was similar to the oily residue that she sensed around Joffrey, and she was careful to take only small sips of her wine, even as she smiled for the prince while he regaled her with stories of court, encouraging her to drink more.

Perhaps it was his gift, she realized, with some trepidation. Could one typically sense the gifts of others, though? Jon’s was warm and bright, but she couldn’t begin to imagine what the rest of her family’s gifts felt like.

The Lannister gift involved some sort of illusory magic, Sansa remembered, but she didn’t know whether that contributed to the toasts the queen received, or whether her beauty and charm were all her own. She suspected it was her gift- many of Lord Stark’s bannermen, normally composed and mistrustful of outsiders, looked at the queen tonight with a hunger in their eyes that Sansa didn’t like.

Perhaps the Lannister gift played on perception- that might explain why sensible Jeyne, who Sansa knew for a fact found Theon to be far more attractive than the prince, was swooning over Joffrey tonight. She wondered if the others could see the wear at the hem of the queen’s gown, and the slight wrinkles around her eyes- the softness of her hips from bearing children. She was beautiful, yes, but in a very human way, Sansa thought.

Perhaps being cursed by the gods to have no gift meant that the effects of the other’s gifts were lost on her, although she _had_ always been able to see and hold the little sculptures of flame that Jon would make. Perhaps- and this thought made Sansa’s heart leap with an unyielding joy- she was developing a new gift of her own.

Her smiles came wider and her polite words to the prince came easier as she considered the possibility, hoping desperately that something would come of it. Perhaps the gods had finally heard her prayers.

 

* * *

 

Sansa and Arya had been invited to spend the morning sewing with the princess, and Sansa had been nearly beside herself with anticipation. Myrcella was a perfect lady, and even her sister was trying to be polite for Sansa’s sake. Sansa shot her a small secret smile, even as Arya subtly kicked her when Septa Mordane wasn’t watching, before turning back to her own work.

She was composing a stag design- easily inspired by the rich clothing she’d seen Prince Joffrey and the king wearing. Sansa didn’t know how to sew the white lightning that seemed to come forth with Robert Baratheon’s every step, but was trying a light blue outline to give it a similar crackling glow. She was thrilled with how the design was coming out, and even Arya stopped to begrudgingly admire her work, watching Sansa sew as an excuse to set aside her own embroidery.

The door creaked open, and Sansa smiled brilliantly as she looked up to see the largest direwolf in Winterfell silently enter the room, unperturbed by Myrcella’s terrified gasp, and entirely unbothered by the scream of her handmaiden.

Septa Mordane pursed her lips, but unlike Eddard Stark’s children, she could never tell whether it was Bael’s own mind or that of Lord Stark, and so would never dare to chastise the great wolf. Arya’s face nearly split with her grin as she ran forward, jumping to wrap her arms around the wolf’s neck, her legs dangling a foot or so off the ground.

“Do not be afraid, princess.” Sansa said gently, laying a hand on Myrcella’s arm. The girl looked pale, as though she may faint, and her handmaiden was shaking violently in fear. “This is Bael, my father’s companion. He won’t harm you- I swear it.”

“Is he a direwolf, Lady Sansa?” the princess asked, tensing as the wolf padded closer, Arya swung onto his back in a decidedly unladylike display that drew a sniff from Septa Mordane. Sansa reached out a hand, tangling it in his impossibly thick fur as he playfully nudged her with his head. She smiled.

“He is.” She answered. It was, after all, only Bael, and not her father walking in his skin. She did not know how she could tell, but they all knew when Lord Stark wore the wolf’s face, and when it was merely his companion. “I’m sure he will allow you to stroke his head if you wish.”

The Stark’s direwolves were an extension of themselves, after all- personalities fusing until each took on characteristics of the other. Bael was always gentle with children, and fiercely protective of them if need be. Sansa had no fear that the wolf would harm Myrcella.

Her handmaiden grasped her arm, whispering words of caution that Myrcella shrugged off, relaxing somewhat as she saw Arya tug on the wolf’s ears with no consequence.

“Could Princess Myrcella greet you?” Sansa asked the wolf, who pressed a small, wet kiss to the side of Sansa’s head in answer. She giggled, and was surprised to see Myrcella giggle as well, reaching out a shaking hand to lay it on Bael’s snout. The direwolf made a pleased rumbling noise as she did, closing his bright eyes.

Bael’s eyes were golden- as were Grey Wind’s, Nymeria’s, and Summer’s. Ghost’s eyes were a bloody red, while Shaggydog’s shone an eerie, deep green, but Lady’s eyes were a deep, vivid blue, echoing Sansa’s own. It was a welcome sign that she and Lady were bonded to each other, even though Sansa could not slip into her mind the way her siblings could.

“Lady Sansa- Lady Arya-“ Septa Mordane sternly addressed the two Stark girls, “-you both have sewing to finish before your time is your own.”

Arya sighed, glumly eying the fabric hoop in front of her, and Sansa’s heart ached for her sister, even as Bael lay behind her chair. They weren’t allowed to have Lady and Nymeria with them during sewing, but Septa Mordane at least knew that Bael could not be commanded, and would never obey any master but himself.

 

* * *

 

Sansa, tired of the snide looks and unkind whispers from the royal party after several days, and disappointed that no further signs of any sort of gift had revealed themselves to her, had decided to do something rather unladylike. She was in the process of hiding in the library with several stolen tarts from Myldred- Sansa’s favorite cook at Winterfell. The older woman had sympathetically pressed the little warm pies into her hands with a warm smile that was several teeth short of a full set as she shooed Sansa and Lady out of the kitchens right before several Lannister men entered.

Sansa had decided on a tome of several of the older northern stories- the darker ones, with nary a grumpkin in sight. She folded herself into a little alcove, wrapping her cloak around her like a blanket, enjoying the feel of the soft fur on her neck, as she delved deeper into the ancient North, Lady sleeping quietly below her.

 _Dark stories._ Sansa thought, her fingers tracing the illustration of a dead man, come to life in the ice and snow and eternal winter, his mouth open in a silent scream. _What must it be like, to be such a creature?_ She wondered, nibbling on one of the little pies, the rich, caramelized onions practically melting on her tongue. _To be truly cursed- not simply forgotten by the gods._ The tales were grim and terrible, but Sansa was fascinated by them, and they were a wonderful distraction from her own messy feelings, swirling in the pit of her stomach.

“Hi Sansa!”

Bran’s long mop of hair popped up from below the alcove so suddenly that Sansa had to bite her lip to keep from shrieking, and a metallic taste filled her mouth as she realized she’d bitten down too hard.

“You startled me, Sweetling.” Sansa told him, swallowing and giving him a warm smile, nonetheless. She could never do any less for Bran, after all. He was a kind, sensitive child, and was the only other Stark child to share Sansa’s love of the old stories and songs. He stuck out his lower lip, slightly, a contrite expression crossing his face.

“Sorry Sansi.” He mumbled, looking down and flushing red. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It is no one’s fault but my own-“ Sansa smiled, beckoning him up to the alcove with her, “I was distracted, after all.” She peered down at her slumbering wolf. “And apparently my guard has fallen asleep at her post.”

Lady let out a gentle snort, and Bran grinned at her, gleefully scrambling up to her alcove as Summer settled down by Lady. Sansa would sit and read to Bran here, and he to her, and it was a space only for the two of them. Even Jon had not been invited into this sanctum of Sansa’s, much as she enjoyed his presence.

Sansa never would have admitted it, but she felt a certain closeness to Bran that she didn’t with her other siblings. She loved them all, dearly, even as Arya muddied her dresses and Robb forgot that she couldn’t always keep up with him, and Rickon threw snowballs at her, but Bran- something about him- was special to her.

Their mother had given birth to Bran when Sansa was finally old enough to help out with the babe, and she had loved finally having a sibling that she could carry around and shower with kisses and affection- Arya had always been too wild for that, much as Sansa loved her. It had been a happy time- before any of the Stark children were expected to show signs of a magical gift. Sansa cherished the memories of toting around the coppery-headed toddler, reading to him before the fire in the deep dark of winter, where the days were nigh indistinguishable from nights.

As he had grown older, Bran had grown to love the stories and epic tales that Sansa favored all the more, and had set his sights on becoming a knight, spending hours in the training yard with Robb and Jon. Always, though, he would come back to Sansa, to cuddle with her and to take turns reading stories and poems from the Winterfell library.  

“Which one this time?” he asked, leaning his head against her shoulder.

“Old stories of the wild North.” Sansa told him, feeling him grin against her shoulder. “Of creatures older than time, but not bound by it, and the men that fought them.”

“Are there any about the wall?” Bran asked, eagerly, bringing a smile to Sansa’s face. Stories of Bran the Builder and his accomplishments were always some of her little brother’s favorites, and Sansa had long since memorized many of them.

“I think we can manage to find a few.” She told him, feeling her shoulders relax as she closed the page with the dead man, opening onto an illustration of the wall, spanning the entire page. In this library, no one was staring at her, and no one was whispering, and for a moment, she felt almost at peace.

“Once, there was a legendary Stark king…”

 

* * *

 

She had been called to speak with her mother and father, summoned by Bael, who had gently nudged her down the hall until she and Lady chose to follow after him, never mind that Bael could easily have picked her up by the scruff of her neck like a cub, had he wanted to.

All the Stark children knew to listen to their father’s direwolf, though- even if their father was not sharing his mind at the time. In Winterfell’s walls, Bael held all the respect and power that Lord Eddard did- a near literal extension of the Northern Warden’s soul, and Sansa was always comforted by his presence, especially as she received a surprising piece of news.

“Prince Joffrey?” Sansa asked, shocked, as she stood in her father’s solar, hands gently clasped in front of her, her elbows delicately behind her like the wings of a songbird. “The King wishes for me to marry his son?”

“He does.” Her father told her, looking older than she had ever seen him before. It was odd that this visit seemed to have put so much stress on him when the king had once been his closest friend. “But it is not a decision that I would make for you, sweetling. Not considering your- the circumstances.”

Sansa’s heart dropped, and she fought to keep her face neutral.

 _The circumstances_.

It was a phrase she had heard all her life- and she knew what her father meant, however kindly he put it. She was without a gift- an oddity, in this world, for anyone of noble blood.

Most seats were won or awarded to the strongest- to those with the most extraordinary of gifts- and so the nobility of Westeros had earned their lands through the magic that ran in their veins. The ancient and extinct house of Gardener had been able to control living wood, ruling for a thousand years on a throne of oak until Aegon and his sisters had arrived, burning both house and seat on the field of fire. House Tyrell, the stewards of House Gardener- famed for their ability to grow anything- had presented Aegon I with a bountiful harvest they had coaxed from the flame ridden lands after the battle, and impressed the monarch enough that he gladly granted them Highgarden and the Reach. Lann the Clever had used his gift to frighten and confuse House Casterly- casting illusions to make them believe that the Rock was haunted until they turned on each other, and he was able to swindle Casterly Rock from them.

The Starks were no exception- Bran the Builder had been a powerful greenseer and warg, his gifts granting him enough power to raise both Winterfell and the Wall. He was said to have been descended from Garth Greenhand, a claim shared by many other great houses of Westeros. The nobility derived their power and influence from their gifts, Sansa knew, and without a gift, she was no better than a commoner in the eyes of many.

“You do not wish for me to marry the prince, father?” she asked, softly. Her mother carried a pained expression, exchanging a look with her father- a silent conversation.

“We wish for you to marry someone who is worthy of you.” Her father finally told her, taking her hands in his own. “Someone brave, and gentle, and strong.”

“I would be queen.” Sansa told them, desperately trying not to let her desperation bleed into her voice. “Father- I know that no one else has asked you for my hand- and I know that offers you have made to potential suitors have been returned, unopened.”

Her father’s head snapped up.

“How do you-“

“I have overheard Robb speaking of it with Jon.” Sansa confessed, meeting his mournful eyes. “He did not betray your confidence, father- but he was angry on my behalf, and likely not censoring himself the way he usually would have.”

Her mother’s lips twitched slightly at that, and Sansa gave her a half-smile.

“Sansa, we fear that they would not understand your worth in the south.” Her mother told her, her tone hollow. “That they would mistreat you for it.”

Sansa is not naïve- she knows that she will be vulnerable to her husband’s gifts in any marriage she enters into (if anyone ever deigned to want her)- she has known it for as long as she can remember. It was knowledge borne from snippets of vulgar conversation, overheard in the courtyard from unruly soldiers and on the walls of Winterfell, from some of the more callous guards. The servants were far less crude- but Sansa had heard a fair amount of gossip that had made her shiver.

But what other option did she have? To grow old in the walls of Winterfell, forever a loveless maid? She longs- _yearns_ \- for the chance to build a future for herself, for her children- but there is no set or easy path for a giftless girl, even as the daughter of one of Westeros’ great houses.

 _Does my choice matter?_ She wants to ask, but is far too well-mannered for that.

Arya would have asked, Sansa thinks, with a rush of amusement and more than a little jealousy. Bold Arya, with her rock-solid sense of self would have demanded that her voice count, but Sansa could not bring herself to upset her parents, even a little, knowing how difficult it was for them to figure her out.

“I wish to bring honor to House Stark.” Sansa tells them, impressed with herself for the way her tone held steady. A chance- all she wanted was the chance to show them that she could be great even without the Stark gift. “If the king wishes to join our houses, then I would be honored to be a part of an alliance with House Baratheon.”

 _Give me a chance._ She thinks, desperately. _A chance to prove myself to you- that’s all I want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted._

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, the tentative hope that had risen in Sansa’s stomach since her conversation with the Lord and Lady of Winterfell didn’t seem to be shared by the others- Jon in particular.

 “You can’t marry Joffrey.” Jon’s voice was surprised, and blunt, and Sansa immediately felt her spine stiffen.

“If I am to marry Joffrey, it will not be my decision, but that of father and the king.” Sansa tells him, suddenly irritated, though her voice stays steady. “Would you command father, Jon? King Robert?”

“He’s not good enough for you.” Jon urged, taking one of her hands in his. They were warm- Jon’s hands were always warm- and he held them tightly, but gently enough that Sansa knew she could pull away if she wished.

“Perhaps to you.” Sansa murmured. “Perhaps to our family. But to the rest of Westeros, I am not good enough to marry a landless hedge knight, let alone a prince of Westeros.”

“Sansa-“ Jon murmured, his thumb drawing circles on her hand as he held it, “Your gift doesn’t define you.”

“Perhaps your gift doesn’t define _you_ , Jon, but my lack of one certainly is definition enough.” Sansa argued, frustration building up in her. “You have no idea how I’ve _longed_ for this-“ she pleaded, rubbing her thumb gently over his hand, “-for someone to look past my curse and see _me_ -“

“But he doesn’t _see_ you!” Jon exclaimed, gently pulling her closer to him. “The fat king sees an alliance-“

“Why do you have to be so cruel?” Sansa asked, jerking her hand away, tears filling her eyes at his harsh words, even as a part of her whispered that they were true. “This is what I’ve always wanted! A marriage with a prince is more than I ever dared to _dream_ of, and you would ruin it all?”

“Sansa-“

“And for what, Jon?” she whispered. “You wish to keep me chained in Winterfell all my life? I’ve never had a place I fit into-“

“And I have?” Jon asked. “I’m a bastard, Sansa. Even the truth doesn’t change that fact.”

“Bastard you may be, but no one who sees you walk the halls of this castle has ever doubted that you’re father’s son.” Sansa said, her voice low and angry, despite her better instincts. “I know how they speak of me, Jon. I know they call me a failure, a cursed, gods-forgotten child, and I’ve heard servants and lords alike whisper of how I must not even be father’s daughter, as I didn’t inherit even a shred of the Stark gift.”

“Who has said you aren’t father’s daughter?” Jon asked, eyes narrowing. Sansa understood- she shared his frustration. That accusation didn’t only reflect poorly on her, but also impugned the honor of her lady mother, but Sansa was too tired to be angry at that anymore.

“I don’t belong here, Jon.” Sansa sighed, folding her hands together and trying not to sniffle as a tear ran down her face. “I may not belong anywhere- but this could at least be a chance for me to try- could it not?”

And with that, lip trembling, she turned and walked quickly away, hoping to reach the godswood before Jon could see her cry.

 

* * *

 

Sansa’s steps were that of a perfect lady, but her mind was racing. Her hands were shaking, she realized. How could Jon have been so inconsiderate- so selfish? If King Robert wanted her to marry the prince, then Sansa would do so, and strive to bring honor to the Stark name as much as she could.

Who else, after all, would want her, giftless as she was?

It was what Sansa had always wanted, wasn’t it? To find a lord- any lord, really- who would look past her lack of gift and see the perfect lady she’d cultivated to make up for her shortcomings in the eyes of the old gods and the new.

Joffrey was a _prince_ , after all, and Sansa had never dared to dream that she could rise so high in the world. To be queen, to be a kind and just example to the seven kingdoms, just as good queen Alysanne had- it was everything she had never dreamed of. It was everything she’d hoped for.

Wasn’t it?

Sansa didn’t know. Joffrey seemed gallant enough, and he was certainly handsome, but something in her was unsure. Although the oily feeling Prince Joffrey prompted did give her some pause, Sansa was wary not so much of the prince himself, but of the king’s motives.

She knew she was lucky- not a soul in Westeros would have judged Lord Eddard or Lady Catelyn for abandoning her in the wilderness to die when she hadn’t exhibited any sort of gift by the time she was thirteen- many noble families simply sent giftless children away, rather than suffer the shame. It could be dangerous, even, for the nobility to have been born without magic- it formed the very foundation of their society, after all. Baelon, the son of Viserys I and Aemma Arryn had been born without a gift, and had not been allowed to inherit the throne, despite being the only living son of the king. It was rumored that Viserys had had his son killed, rather than suffer the shame, naming his daughter, Rhaenyra, his heir when they found that the flames would listen to her.

Even rumors of Baelon’s lack of gift had been damaging enough to cause the realm to lose faith in Viserys’ children by Aemma Arryn, despite Rhaenyra's magic, and when Alicent Hightower had crowned Viserys’ younger son as King Aegon II, usurping Rhaenyra's claim, it had sparked the Dance of Dragons- a bloody civil war that had nearly torn the realm apart. And all over one giftless boy.

So why would Robert Baratheon marry his son to _her_ \- a giftless girl? It was a huge risk for the king to take, especially for one trying to build a new dynasty. Could she even _give_ the prince children with his magic, or would they be born like her?

It didn’t make sense to Sansa, even as she longed desperately to take it at face value- to believe that the king had seen her as her father’s daughter, even without a gift, and realized that she was a fine enough lady to make up for it.

Looking up, Sansa realized that her absentminded steps had led her to the Godswood, and she instantly felt a little lighter surrounded by the trees and the light summer snow. She sat by the heart tree, back leaning against the white wood as she sunk one of her hands into Lady’s fur. There had always been something comforting about the Godswood to her- calming when the rest of the world was chaotic and cruel, and welcoming her when she felt as though she would never belong anywhere else.

She settled her head back against the trunk and felt a buzzing under her skin- a crackle of something, and she was agitated instantly as she felt something pushing at her skin. She didn’t know why- didn’t know what this sudden discomfort was.

She’d never felt anything like it before, and Sansa shuddered as something like dread crept over her limbs.

 

* * *

 

Bran had been forbidden from climbing by his mother, and so, naturally, he did it all the time. Summer followed him from the ground, staring up at him with an expression that was not dissimilar to his mother’s, his piercing gold eyes carrying a grim warning.

Bran simply grinned back at the direwolf, climbing higher and allowing the wind to whip around his hair, long and tangled as it lashed his face. Sansa loved to run her fingers through it, and though Bran would never admit it, he loved it when his sister would comb through and braid it, her soft hands never pulling at his scalp as she sang. Bran loved all of his siblings, but there was something special about Sansa, he thought. Perhaps the old gods had realized that they had been cruel not to give her a gift, and had instead, given her all of the grace and goodness in the world to make up for it. It only seemed fair, really.

Quickly scaling the broken tower, Bran was so concerned with extracting the corn from his pocket for the crows that he almost missed the scene inside the tower.

Almost.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” She hears Jon’s voice, sounding very far away, and realizes that he’s kneeling before her and the heart tree, having followed her into the Godswood. “I- I was foolish, and unkind to say the things that I did. I never meant to hurt you.” He looks up at her, eyes large and mournful, and Sansa can’t focus on him at _all._ “Can you forgive me?”

She stares ahead, opening and shutting her mouth as she tries to figure out what this sudden _urgency_ is- what this _itch_ in her bones could mean. She felt Ghost’s nose nudge at her leg, gently whining.

“Sansa?” Jon asks, reaching out to cup her jaw, gently brushing a thumb over the top of her cheek. “Sansa, are you alright?”

“I’m not sure.” Sansa managed to get out, grasping onto his hand like a lifeline. “I think- I think something is wrong!”

 

* * *

 

Bran catches sight of the queen and her brother, and he pauses to gape for only a second before his mind catches up to his limbs and he realizes that he needs to _hide_ , and that he needs to hide _now._

But the instant he tries to duck out of sight, he hears a piercing shriek, and the next thing he knows, a hand has grabbed the neck of his shirt, and is hauling him up.

“Why did you grab him?” the queen snapped, covering herself in a sheet as the kingslayer pulled Bran into the room. “He can't have seen any-"

“I’m sorry, your grace!” Bran managed to get out, panicking at the sneer curling on Jaime Lannister’s face. “I didn’t know you both were up here!”

The two of them froze, in unison, and Bran saw an expression on the queen’s face that he might almost call fear as she and her twin brother mirrored each other, clearly having a conversation he wasn’t privy to.

“Both of us, boy?” the kingslayer asks him, his voice velvet and soft.

“He shouldn’t be able to- how-“ Cersei Lannister’s words cut off as the blood drained from her face. “He saw us, Jaime. He saw _through_ our power.”

 

* * *

 

“Don’t try to stand, Sansa-“ Jon protested, as she struggled to her feet, her hand still pressed to the heart tree. It felt like there was a pulse running under her skin- and Sansa was beginning to suspect it was coming from the tree itself, but for some reason, couldn’t bear to pull her hand away. “Sansa, if something’s wrong-“

“I don’t know-“ she gasped, unsure of what all this was, “I- I don’t know, but I have to find him.”

“Find _who_?” Jon asked, holding her up as she stumbled, panic seeping into his tone.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her and merely shook her head.

 

* * *

 

Bran’s breath was coming in short, panicked bursts as he took in the scene- the queen and her brother both half-dressed, and having a conversation seemingly only with their eyes.

The queen gritted her teeth.

“You know what you have to do.” She said, almost menacingly, her gaze falling on Bran, who had never been more afraid. “Protect your family.”

“The things I do for love.” Bran heard the kingslayer grumble, rough in his chest.

And then he seizes Bran’s collar, and for a second, all Bran can feel is the weightless kiss of the air before he is falling, arms frantically reaching- grasping to find a purchase on anything-

There is pain- pain like he has never known, and then Bran knows nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Sansa’s eyes snap open, and Jon visibly startles. For a second, she thinks he is going to step away from her, but she doesn’t give him the time. 

“ _Bran_.” She whispers. Something had happened to Bran. Pulling away from Jon, she hitched up her skirts and _ran_.

As Sansa rushed through the courtyard, an icy rain began to fall, whipped up by a sudden, bitter wind that bit at her face and hands. Through it all, though, she could still hear the high, keening howl of a wolf as the sudden storm threatened to split the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! It took forever for me to figure out where I was going with this fic next, but I have some interesting ideas now that I’m back from my unintentional hiatus. I wrote about 37 pages of this fic on a nine-and-a-half hour flight from London, and then my phone decided to update on it’s own, and promptly deleted all of that, which I am INCREDIBLY annoyed about, but at least now I know vaguely how this story is going to end. (hint: it might not be what you expect, because I definitely surprised myself, but there will still be Jonsa- never fear).
> 
> The Gardeners having wood release jutsu is something that I laughed my ass off about for like, twenty minutes, but it fits. And of course Jaime and Cersei are using crazy illusions to cover up their affair- that one was a no-brainer. Also, I spent a LOT of time on the ASOIAF wiki for this one to get the details correct. GRRM has Baelon dying as an infant, alongside Aemma at his birth, but I thought it was much more interesting to have his lack of ability spark one of the deadliest conflicts in Westeros- like, *that’s* just how stigmatized not having magic is for the nobility. 
> 
> Poor Sansa is just trying to make a life for herself in a world that’s pretty rough for anyone, but especially so for a woman without a gift, and Jon is doing his best, but he just doesn’t have the same perspective as she does. In this version of Westeros, Jon actually holds kind of a higher position in society than Sansa does, just because he has a magical gift, despite being a bastard. Look, *we* know how big of an asshole Joffrey is, and Sansa realizes that something isn’t completely right, but she also doesn’t have a lot of options, and is kind of desperate, here. There’s a lot to this Sansa that’s different from book Sansa, starting with the fact that everyone is aged up a bit here, and so Sansa is 16 here instead of 11 as she is in GRRM’s world, and she’s had her eyes forcibly opened because she doesn’t have any magic yet.
> 
> Honestly, the more I write this, the more I kind of just want to explore the idea of Sansa carving out a life for herself where she just never displays any sort of magic, and fights like hell to realize her own inherent value, gift or no gift. That’s not the direction this story is going in, but I kind of wish I had thought that through more. I might write that at some point, when I’m not in the middle of like, seven different stories haha. 
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter sets up quite a few concepts that are going to be important going forward- sansa’s own social status and the consequences thereof (including her desperate quest for perfection- to better herself in hopes that people will give her a chance in spite of everything), historical precedent for the ungifted and how magic has shaped Westeros, the bond that the Starks have with their wolves and how intertwined they are with everyday life, Sansa’s different relationships with her siblings and Jon, and most importantly, some of Sansa’s own magic beginning to manifest, even though she doesn’t realize it yet. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed and left kudos and left me nice comments here and lovely messages on tumblr (i'm @mkstrigidae, come and say hi!). You guys are the BEST, and I deeply appreciate all of you!


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